


Masturbatory Shame Tango

by t34lbloods (perculious)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M, Self-cest, Time Loop, Time Travel, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-24
Updated: 2012-11-24
Packaged: 2017-11-19 09:07:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/571597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perculious/pseuds/t34lbloods
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Welcome to the Strider subconscious sex safari,” he mutters into your ear. You can feel his breath, cool against where he’s left his saliva on your skin. “You’re about to find out a lot of shit about yourself you never fucking wanted to know.”</p><p>(I didn't tag any other ships because this is just a fic about Dave fucking himself, but there are hints of others, most prominently Dave/Terezi and Dave/Rose.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Masturbatory Shame Tango

**Author's Note:**

> Just to reiterate, please don't read this if the idea of Dave/Rose ecto-incest freaks you out, because there is definitely talk about it. Thanks to sfingella for taking time out of her holiday weekend to edit this for me! And everyone can feel free to hit me up on my Homestuck tumblr, t34lbloods.

The thought is only half-formed in your mind when a blond kid in sunglasses steps out of thin goddamn air and slouches up against your door frame, hands shoved in his pockets.

“‘Sup,” he says.

Of course. Of fucking course he’d come back to this moment, almost before you’d even thought of it, just to fuck with you. Why are you such a dick? You’ve got to work on changing that at some point. Get all zen maybe, take up meditation, drink some green tea, fucking antioxidant yourself stupid. Get so antioxidant that oxidant complains of harassment to the HR department. Become one with the universe, and get over this dumb need to one-up everyone and everything that crawls into your line of sight. But it looks like future you isn’t cruising by from a future time where that’s happened.

For now, all you can do is act like you’re the one with the upper hand.

“So I guess you’re here to fuck me,” you say, leaning back on your hands. You’re sitting on your bed, in what passes for your room on the space rock. It’s about a trillion times less cool than your room at home, no matter how many of Karkat’s weird troll book covers you alchemized with your shades to make cool posters.

“Guess so,” Future Dave says. Like he doesn’t know exactly what happens. Damn, but you’re suave.

"Is it good for me?" you say—lazily, so he knows you're being ironic, even though you're kind of not. After all, you've never actually had sex before, although really this is just a particularly elaborate form of masturbation. You’re using yourself as a living, breathing, be-dicked blow-up doll.

"Come on, bro. Can you even imagine a timeline in which I'm not the greatest of all possible lovers?" He tips his head to the side so that his hair swings a little. It looks incredibly douchey and you immediately vow never to do it, knowing as you do that he probably remembered thinking so and did it just to piss you off.

"Like Casanova and Don Juan had a baby and taught it to fuck."

"Shit, yeah."

He’s from about three hours in the future. He doesn’t look rumpled, so you guess you’re about to have sex, clean yourself up, and then swing by here for round two-slash-one-again. Not a bad way to spend an afternoon in a timeless wasteland.

“Let's go, then,” you say, tilting your head back and narrowing your eyes at him behind your shades.

He pushes himself away from the door frame, and approaches you in a way that would seem cool if you didn't know exactly how he was doing it. You can see it, the tilt of his shoulders, the looseness of his limbs. You know what he's doing and it's somehow hilarious and sad that he has to keep this up in front of you. Maybe especially in front of you.

He puts a finger on your shades, and you shake your head.

"Nuh-uh," you say. "You first, bro."

"Dude, I'm doing us a favor," he says. "The plaintive clink of shades on shades is the sad sound of someone who's given up on finding another living creature to bone. The atonal swan song of the Strider sex drive. Put on some pajama jeans, bro, because you've hit rock bottom. You want something dope like our shades involved in this sordid masturbatory shame tango?”

“You first,” you say again, lifting one shoulder in a shrug. He raises his other hand to his own shades and removes them as he slips yours off the end of your nose. He folds both pairs and captchalogues them. You almost protest, but he showed up wearing them, so you’ll get them back sometime in the next three hours.

Now that you can see his eyes, his expression is hard and appraising. He’s looking down at your face like he’s trying to figure something out, and it’s dumb but it makes you shiver a little. Because this is you, and you should know what he’s thinking, but you can’t help but think he doesn’t look very happy to see you.

He rubs his thumb across your cheekbone, pressing hard enough that it drags across your skin, a little painful. And then he grasps your shoulders with both hands and climbs onto the bed, straddling your lap.

You’re not hard, because nothing’s happened yet, but your skin is tingling with an anticipatory buzz. Your dick is about to get all kinds of touched, you tell yourself. Hands coming from angles it can’t even imagine in its wildest dick dreams.

You expect him to kiss you, but instead he reaches behind your head and twists a hand into your hair, hard. You breathe in sharply, caught off-guard, but it’s clear that he knows you because your dick wakes up. Welcome to the party, little dude, you think. Future Dave is twisting hard enough to make your eyes water at the corners.

“Shit, I didn’t even know we were into that,” you say, laughing a little shakily.

He kisses you then, his mouth hard and crushing against yours. It’s your first kiss—but no, if you let yourself think of things that way this’ll get too depressing for boners real fast. This is just like making out with the back of your hand.

Still, it’s not what you expected. His mouth liquid hot is against yours, and he shoves his tongue roughly into your mouth before you can even process it. Warmth spreads from your breastbone out through your body, and your clothes suddenly feel stifling against your warm skin. You can’t help it—you lean back and fist his shirt, pulling him in. Little Dave has definitely taken an interest now. And by that you mean your penis, not like another weird freaky Dave time clone is in the room. Future you bites down on your lower lip, _hard_ , harder than you would have thought was allowed, but again it presses a button you didn’t know you had and you moan into it. Fuck, that’s embarrassing. No more moaning, you tell yourself, or you’ll never let yourself live it down. You tug on his shirt, unsure of what else to do, but just wanting things to escalate.

He doesn’t pull back. Instead, he slides his mouth wetly across your face and bites down on your earlobe. You hiss sharply, eyes squeezing shut, and he sticks his fucking tongue in your ear. Ugh, you do not want to do that in three hours, you should have sent a message back to yourself an hour ago telling you to wash your ears specially or something, but right now your spine feels like Jello and your fingers on his shirt are trembling. Okay, he’s turned you on stupid fast, what the fuck?

“Welcome to the Strider subconscious sex safari,” he mutters into your ear. You can feel his breath, cool against where he’s left his saliva on your skin. “You’re about to find out a lot of shit about yourself you never fucking wanted to know.”

That makes you hesitate, for a fraction of a second, but you’re the last person you can back down from. Plus, it feels awesome so far.

“Just don’t tell Rose about it later,” you say. You spare a moment to hope really hard that the Strider sex safari is not going to include any detours into dense Freudian jungles. If the buttons that you’re learning about in the next three hours include anything about freaky ecto-genetic momsex or sistersex, you’re hopping off the carousel right fucking now, thanks. Let’s go try the Ferris wheel instead, junior.

“I won’t if you won’t,” he says, and smirks like that’s funny even though it’s not. Have you always been this annoying? Fucking probably. You open your mouth to answer, but he pulls you back by your hair again and licks all the way up your throat, tongue on your Adam’s apple. “Fuck,” you breathe instead, your hips grinding up against him without your conscious consent.

He pushes you back on the bed so your head hits the pillow and climbs on top of you, kissing you again, open-mouthed and sloppy, legs still straddling your hips. Okay, yeah. Fuck yeah, this is good. You can feel his entire weight pressing you down. You roll your hips up again, but it’s hard to get enough leverage when gravity is against you. Both iterations of you are wearing jeans and not your god pants, whose idea was that, denim is like a thousand layers thick. You’re burning up from the inside, and you’re ready to skip the sex safari altogether, timeline bullshit be damned, and just come all over yourself right now. You don’t do anything stupid like moan again, but you do make a kind of encouraging noise in the back of your throat and grab his ass to drive his hips downward towards you.

He pushes his ass back against your hands, and wow, that’s pretty much the opposite of what you wanted. Okay, you guess it’s kind of hot but really you’re not attracted to yourself enough to make it worth it. You try to pull him down again, but then you just feel stupid because you’re left massaging your own bony ass, and come on, he has to know what you want, he’s you.

He pulls back to attack your throat some more, and you can see that he’s smirking again. Fuck. Fuck. Sometime in the next three hours you apparently are going to develop an intense hatred for yourself and a hatred for anything enjoyable and good in this universe. The point of doing this was supposed to be how easy it was going to be, how you could satisfy yourself better than anyone else could. It was supposed to be, like, a quick blowjob followed by lazy high-fives, not this power-play bullshit. And fuck, you’ve never been so turned on.

He bites down on your neck, hard enough to leave a mark, and you look down and touch the corresponding mark on his throat with your index finger. With his teeth still in your skin you press into the bruise, and his entire body shudders against you. Oh, fuck. You let your head drop back and grind your hips up again, even though you can barely feel the pressure, and he takes that moment to finally grind down with the full force of his skinny hips. You almost choke in surprise, and the pleasure ripples through your whole body.

“Here’s how it’s going to go,” he says against the skin of your neck. The touch of his lips is feather-light, you can barely feel it, and it makes you strain to feel more, although you feel stupid about it. He’s barely done anything yet, you can’t already be at the stage of aching to feel more of his lip-touches against skin that is not even anywhere close to your junk. You must be the most arrogant self-absorbed fuck in the world if making out with yourself is getting you this heated up.

“I’m going to blow you,” he says. “Then I’m going to fuck you until we both come.”

You try to pretend like that doesn’t sound like the best fucking thing that has ever happened to you. Will ever happen to you. Either way.

“Is that it?” you say, grabbing his hips and trying to press him down against you again. He doesn’t comply. “You promised me a fucking sex safari. Where are the elephants? Is it buttsex? Is that the big surprise? That’s not a safari, that’s a fucking petting zoo. I already know I’m into that. I thought we’d be getting all latex bodysuit or fucking each other with doorknobs up in here.” You’ve messed around with ass stuff already—not much to do on a trip through the eternal nothingness of paradox space except stick some fingers up your ass just to see. Kinda the same reason you’re in here fucking your time clone. Normal masturbation gets old real fast when it’s your only source of entertainment, besides watching Karkat melt down into a twitching carcass of rage at your slightest word.

“Try not to be so much of an insufferable douche,” Future Dave says. “You’re going to seriously regret it real soon.”

“Hey, I’m fucking perfect, maybe you missed the memo.” You arch your back, trying to make up for his reluctance to grind down, but he remains infuriatingly still. “By which I mean a piece of paper that gets passed around, not like one of Vantas’ freaky time memos where he jerks it to walls of gray asshole text spinning off into infinity. I’m not physically capable of doing anything that’s not one hundred percent certified sexy material. Guaranteed to make you cream your pants or your money back.”

“Just shut the fuck up, seriously, shit is so unbearable when you’re on the other side of it, you would not believe.” He finally pushes his hips down again, and you try to be cool about it but you’re pretty sure he notices when you stop breathing.

“Oh,” you say shortly, your chest tight with trapped air. You let it out slowly, jerking your hips up again. He lets you, with an impassive look that you recognize as one that usually requires shades.

“It’s embarrassing me how easy you are,” he says.

“Probably a lot easier for you to keep cool when you’ve already come twice,” you say, grinding against him as best as you can from below. Yeah, you’re not an idiot, of course the first thing you did when he gave you the run-down was count the orgasms you’re about to have.

He doesn’t respond, except to dig his fingernails into your collarbone. You move your hips lazily, enjoying the feel of the friction. You sort of wish he’d kiss you again, but obviously you’re not about to say that. “Okay, get down to it, then,” you say. “Get down, it’s like a double meaning, get it? Because you’re literally going to go down—”

“Oh my god, shut _up_ ,” he says, and claps his hand over your mouth hard. You should be pissed but honestly the feel of his hot skin against your lips and his fingertips pressing a bruise into your cheekbone is kind of doing it for you. God, he’s right, you are embarrassing. Too bad he’s here, the one person who’ll judge you for it more than anyone else.

He deftly unbuckles your jeans, unzips your fly, and yanks your pants down. You expect him to keep undressing you, to pull off your shirt and socks and stuff, but he doesn’t, and he doesn’t undress either. He pulls your pants down around your thighs, and then yanks your boxers down to follow. It’s rough and perfunctory in a way that sends confusing feelings through your stomach, insulted but also warm in a way that makes you want to curl forward against him, like you’re a lizard seeking heat from the sun.

The air is surprisingly cool on your overheated dick, and it sends an odd shiver through you. No surprise that you’re already hard as fuck. You squirm a little, uncomfortable with the feeling of your jeans still most of the way up, but he ignores you. “You better fucking appreciate this,” he says, “because I'm not exactly raring to put a dick in my mouth right now."

Oh yeah, you’re going to have to do that. That means that this is his first time doing this, which gives you a nasty twist of satisfaction in your gut, knowing that it’s his turn to not know what the fuck he’s doing. It hits you in a flash—you knew that you were going to be him in a few hours, duh, you’re the fucking Knight of Time, you understand how this shit works, but that means that in a few hours you’ll get to be the one with the upper hand. Dominating yourself as easily as he pushes your hip down now with his forearm, pinning you against the mattress, his elbow digging into your thigh as he lowers himself down. It sends another chill through you, something sick you want to bottle up and savor. It’s confusing, happening at the same time as you’re enjoying the feel of him pressing you down, making it hard for you to move.

He strokes up your dick like he’s bored, like it’s no big deal, which you guess it’s not, because it’s his own dick. You wouldn’t feel very excited about touching your own dick either. But feeling him touching you sends more of an anticipatory thrill to your stomach, as you wait for it to get really good. He pinches the skin on the inside of your thigh, which sends a jolt right to your dick. Fuck, you wish he didn’t know you so well, but you barely have time to be bothered by it before he licks a long stripe from the base of your cock all the up to the head.

You want to spread your legs, to be splayed out on the bed, but you can’t because your jeans are tight around your upper thighs, so instead you just push your head into the pillow and try not to make any noise. You nearly succeed, only the tiniest of sounds escaping your tight throat. He licks again, experimental, and then draws back a little, swallowing.

“Taste like Cinnabon?” you say, looking up at the ceiling. In lieu of an answer, he lowers his mouth and smears his lips messily across your dick. Shit, okay, fair enough, you think, every muscle in your legs clenching up at once.

He finally stops messing around and takes you into his mouth. This is not your first blowjob, you remind yourself harshly, this is just complicated masturbation, so there’s no reason why it should make you feel so desperate in the first few seconds. It feels _so good_ , wet and warm and sloppy, and you kind of like that he doesn’t seem to be very good at it. Like, what the fuck would you know, you wouldn’t know a good blowjob from a smuppet ass, but he’s just kind of letting your dick lie in his mouth like he doesn’t know what to do with it, and it’s sort of hilarious. You start laughing, and push your hips up to encourage him to get on with it. He pulls off and pushes you down again with his hand.

“Don’t be such a dick.”

“Don’t know any other way to be, man.”

He goes down again, and it’s better this time, tighter, as he starts really sucking. His lips slide over your shaft, and okay yeah. Yeah. That’s pretty fucking good. Okay, you like this more actually, because not only is your dick pretty goddamn happy about the current state of affairs, you also like the smug feeling of knowing you can give a good blowjob. Or you will be able to soon. Every little flick of his tongue, every centimeter more he manages to take in, increases your ego as well as your lust. It feels fucking fantastic. In case anyone ever thought Dave Strider would be bad at blowjobs, they were wronger than that guy who thinks Superman is a bird at first. That goes for Rose too. One time you referred to yourself as a sex machine and Rose snorted audibly. Joke’s on you, Rose, this blowjob is aces.

You close your eyes and stop thinking about Rose, because that’s weird. You focus on his tongue on your dick, his hand on your balls now, his hair brushing your stomach where he’s pushed your shirt up. You want to thrust up, but you can’t actually be too much of an asshole since you have to be this fucker in a couple hours. You feel restricted anyway with your jeans still most of the way up. You can’t do much of anything. So you stay still and let him assault you with sensation, like sensation is a lead pipe and he’s Professor Plum in the library. Your breath keeps tripping over itself; you keep letting out little stuttering gasps as he sucks harder, then licks softer, then rubs his thumb across the part of your dick where his mouth won’t reach. You’re stupid close already, but you guess there’s no point in dragging this out if the point is just to get you off. Like if you’re masturbating, you’re not gonna delay your orgasm to prolong the pleasure for your hand. Future Dave would probably be happy to get this over with. He bobs up and down again, and the noise that comes out of you is low and really embarrassing. Gross. And there’s his hand gripping right under his mouth again, and oh god, oh fuck.

You can’t think of many things less appealing to contemplate than come in your mouth, so you tug his hair lightly and say, “Bro, I’m—I’m really close, I’m gonna come, okay, shit—”

He pulls off and immediately gets to work with his hand, jerking you hard, your dick still wet from his saliva. You groan and let your hips jerk upward this time. Yeah, fuck yeah, it’s fucking incredible having this done by someone who knows exactly how you like it. It’s just the right amount of pressure in his grip, just the right kind of touch when he brushes his palm over the head on the upstroke, just fucking perfect and you’re leaning into his touch and crying out and then you’re coming and it feels so good you can’t breathe.

You ride it out, taking gulps of air in between the waves, not even caring how uncool you must look right now. You’ll save the caring for Future Dave. For now you just let yourself wallow in it, sinking back into the pillow and sighing, long and loud.

Your eyes flutter open. Future Dave is already decaptchaloguing a box of tissues that you’ll have to remember to find and pick up some time in the next few hours. He wipes your jizz off his hand and throws the rest of the box at you.

“Romantic,” you say, taking a couple and using them to wipe off what got on your lower stomach.

“That one was just a freebie,” he says. “All for you. Next one won’t be so nice.”

“Are you fucking serious with this right now?” you say. “Sounding like a movie villain? ‘Next one won’t be so nice.’ We’re talking about a fucking orgasm, not my secret spy training trials. Fuck you. I’m gonna enjoy the hell out of it.”

He rolls his eyes at you, which sucks. You’d tell him you hate him except you don’t want to give him the satisfaction. Instead, you tell him, “Stop acting like you’re some weirdo sex puppeteer all pulling my strings and making my various puppet limbs rise up in hilarious ways. You’re not playing me as effectively as you think, dude. If you’re going for orchestra flutist, you’re hitting kid with a kazoo.”

He doesn’t say anything, but he takes the tissue from your hand and captchalogues it, which you guess is supposed to be some stupid point about how he just got you off. Like you couldn’t do that for him. Like you don’t know just as much about his handjob style as he knows about yours. What an insufferable dickhole.

“So now you’re gonna fuck me?” you say. “Is that right? Sure you don’t want to get a little kinky, start messing with the timeline? See what an offshoot timeline has in store for us? Take the early exit to dream bubble land?”

“Come on, dude, we don’t do that,” he says. “We don’t do that whole ‘but what if I just told you I’d fuck you because I knew that it would make you not want to’ timeline reach-around bullshit. That’s all Rose and Kanaya’s game.”

“Alright, dude, take the magic Seer wand out of your ass. Let’s do this, then.”

“Fine,” he says. “Take off your clothes.”

“You fucking first.”

“This is stupid.”

“I don’t see you stripping.”

“Jesus.” He grips the hem of his shirt, pulls it up over his head, and tosses it to the side. “You’re not being as cool as you think, dude. There’s nothing badass about refusing to take your clothes off when someone’s offering to fuck you. It’s just dumb. Not everything has to be a grand fucking statement, it’s exhausting. It’s like, if you spend all your time trying so hard not to be lame you end up being the lamest one of all. Just watch as it turns out that John was the coolest of us all along, it’s just some big cosmic joke.”

“What the fuck, dude?” You’re actually a little taken aback, although you try not to show it; he seems genuinely pissed off at you. “Wow, show me on the doll where I touched you. Or just show me on me.”

“You have no fucking clue how little I want to hear this shit you think is clever,” he says. “Take your clothes off.”

“Fine, fine.” You squirm a little, pulling your jeans the rest of the way down, and kick them off. He follows suit, stripping off his own jeans while you take off your shirt. He grabs your ankles to pull your socks off himself, and you can’t help but get off a little on the roughness, on how he grips just hard enough to hurt a little. It’s still too early for you to get hard again, but you enjoy it anyway.

“Lube?” he says.

“You’re not screwing around, are you. Nosedive straight to Dave’s ass central.”

“Fuck you, okay, it’s in your sylladex and I don’t have it anymore, just give it to me.”

“I thought you were going to be the one giving it to me,” you say, but okay, you decaptchalogue it. It took you a long time to figure out the right combination of things to alchemize, and you’re still not sure that what you made can technically be called lube. It’s certainly slippery, and it hasn’t hurt you yet to use it for things that it might not be intended for, but you try not to think about the weird shit that went into it. At one point you had to figure out the captchalogue code for your own spit, and that’s the least of it. Whatever it is, you have it in a baggy and you hand it to him now.

He grabs you again and hoists your legs up, hooking your knees over his shoulders. Wow, damn, this is getting real. You squirm a little, trying to imagine the feeling of a dick in you, something you didn’t think you were going to feel for at least another three years. This is starting to feel a little less like masturbation.

It’s not that you haven’t thought about it before, fucking time-displaced versions of you. Present a teen with multiple versions of himself running around like so many defenseless chicks waiting for the arbitrary guillotine of paradox space to come crashing down, and just about the first thing he wants to do is grab the closest Dave and say “I don’t want to die a virgin.” But you kind of thought things might happen with Terezi, and then you kind of thought story time with Karkat was going somewhere, and you didn’t want to have to be like, “Oh yeah, I’ve done this before, I lost it to that Dave Strider boy in the back of his dad’s Buick.” You guess the fact that you’re here now means you officially gave up, at some theoretical point that got lost in the time loop.

Whatever it is, contemplation time is over because he’s scooping some of your totally real lube onto his fingers. You watch him through half-lidded eyes, idly wondering what you're about to do that's making him so mad at you. Or no, wait, it's not him that's about to get angry, he's already angry. It's you, you're the one who's going to develop some kind of bulging hate-on for yourself real soon. You shrug it off—it's not good to start overanalyzing all this time bullshit. Best to just let it happen. For right now you're still feeling that buzzing under your skin, with a sharp hint of nerves at the edge that you wouldn't divulge to future you for any sum of money.

"No need to be scared," he says, smirking, and god, you could punch him in the face if it wasn't you that was going to feel it.

"Fuck you, I'm not."

"I can see why you would be, dude. The unmatched majesty of my boner could bring down the Roman empire. The sheer destructive capabilities of my meat club could kill a rainforest faster than a million McDonald's hamburgers. Sorry, son, you can't prevent forest fires, because my enormous flesh log—"

"It's my dick too," you say.

"It was your dick three hours ago. Two and a half, I guess. When you get here you're gonna see how much it's improved in those two and a half hours, I'd be surprised if you even recognized it." There's still a harshness to his voice that shouldn't be there, like he's just letting his mouth run on autopilot and not really enjoying this. He hikes one of your ankles a little higher on his shoulder, and places his fingers up against your ass.

You hiss slightly from the cold of the… you know, you're just going to go with lube. He starts to work one finger in, slowly but firmly.

You turn your face into the pillow and focus on breathing and relaxing. You've done this to yourself before, you remind yourself, it's not like you even have to tell yourself this is just masturbation because it actually is, it is in fact what you do when you masturbate. But it feels different, somehow, like this; the angle is off, or maybe it's just that you don't have direct control over the exact speed and pressure, and it's taking your breath away.

"Slow down," trips out of your mouth and you hate yourself for it—he's supposed to put his cock in you, it can't be too much already. But he doesn't say anything about it, he just silently complies. You exhale. Okay, now that you're starting to relax it feels better. You close your eyes to block out distractions, focusing on the sensation, and your mouth falls open a little. Your dick finally decided to wake up and come back to the party, you note.

"Okay?" he says. You snort.

"Uh, yeah, dude, I'm not going to fall apart like a porcelain doll at the feel of your giant sausage finger. Oh no, a whole finger up in my ass, I'm going to faint like an auntie at a church wedding."

"You massive dick, I was asking if it's okay to put a second finger in. Pardon me for thinking you'd have something to say on the subject. Next time I'll just shove whatever I please up your ass and not spare you the common fucking courtesy of a one-word request for permission."

"Just do it," you spit. He does, and you grip the sheets. God, fuck, how are you supposed to relax when he's being such an ass?

Despite yourself, your dick is half-hard now, and he snorts. "Look at you," he says, thrusting his fingers in harder. "You get off so hard on this. You thought about what people would say if they knew you were here in your room fucking yourself in the middle of the day?"

"Uh, yeah," you say, hating the way your voice comes out of you, choked and fading into breathy. "Duh, that's probably what everyone's doing. Maybe not so— _oooo_ oookay, not so _literally_ , but what the fuck else are you going to do in the middle of paradox space—oh shit, dude—"

"Sure," he says, and abruptly adds another finger. You squeeze your eyes shut, forcing yourself to acclimate to it. He didn't ask, but that's okay because memory probably told him that you were ready. Consent is a lot simpler if you've literally been inside the other person's head.

"Except you're the only one who's in here alone, Dave." Your eyes fly open.

"Whoa, excuse me?" you say. Your heart is pounding hard in your chest, but you're pretty sure it's because of the three fingers he has up in you. Your lubey mixture is good, but it's wearing a little thin. But it feels so good you don't really care about the roughness, you just don't want him to stop.

"You can check if you want. After this. I did. Rose is with Kanaya, Karkat's off somewhere, probably with the clown, and Terezi—"

"Is with no one, because there's a fucking even number of people on this meteor, dipshit," you get out. "Fuck you—I want—"

"Terezi _doesn't want you_ ," he says, his voice low and hard. You accidentally let a soft whine escape from your throat—it's the pressure of his fingers, the friction that's getting uncomfortable and the anger directed at you all at once, you're alarmed to see that it's all making your dick harder.

" _Shit_."

"You get that?" He stills his fingers and leans in, bringing his face closer to yours. You have never wanted your shades so badly in your life. "No one fucking wants you. You're the only one here who no one wants, Dave, okay?"

You bite the inside of your cheek, resisting the urge to squirm to get him to start moving his fingers again. That would be humiliating and this is already humiliating enough. "That's _stupid_ ," you manage, panting slightly. "That's some bullshit—we're all stuck together here, you think anyone's here because they fucking chose each other's company?"

He curls the tips of his fingers in you, but he still doesn't move them. "Uh, yeah, they did. Vantas and TZ have been friends way long before you came into the picture, bro. Vantas has that fucked-up thing going on with his clown where they bathe together in diamonds or some shit, Rose _asked_ Kanaya to come with, you think anyone wanted you? You think anyone would have chosen you? You hear anyone begging you to come along for the trip into the abyss? You see anyone knocking on your door to see if you want to hang out?"

Something hollow is growing in your chest as he speaks, maybe just the realization that there is something going really wrong here, but you refuse to acknowledge it. Because this is fucking stupid, and it's a shitty way to have sex.

"Dude, if you're here to fuck me, just fucking fuck me," you say. "I don't need your bullshit moralizing to me, okay, I seriously couldn't give less of a shit."

"You don't _get_ it," he says, and pushes into you so far you gasp. "I'm saying this shit because you get off on it, you stupid, _stupid_ fucking weirdo."

Your cheeks are already hot and you can feel them burning hotter, your lungs struggling to breathe right between the shock and the sensation in your ass. "That's—a _fucking lie_ , I know what I'm getting off on—" but you're hard as a rock and your skin feels warm all over and oh god, oh god, you really want him to fuck you right now. He said he would, right, you need him to do it immediately.

"It's pathetic," he says, his voice thick, and you realize with a flash that he's getting off on this too. Okay, wow, you are really entrenched in the shit now. No backing out of this one, bro, you are locked in this downward shame spiral for good. You shut your eyes again and push your hips up, trying to get him to push back against you. You don't even give a shit how dumb and desperate that looks.

Instead, he pulls his fingers out. You dig your heels sharply into his shoulder blades, and he smiles, a weird empty smile. "Dude, figure it out already. Pain is not a punishing tool in this scenario." To punctuate his words, he leans back a little, grabs your foot by the arch, and scrapes his teeth hard across your ankle bone.

You crumple, jitters traveling up your leg, and okay, yeah, fine, it feels fucking good. You hate him.

"You sick fuck," he whispers, and now you can hear the lust behind the anger so clearly you wonder how you ever missed it.

"Stop hate-flirting and fuck me," you say.

"Stop listening to every word of Karkat's lectures," he counters. He hooks your ankle over his shoulder again and picks up the baggy of lube, scraping some more out of the corners with his fingers. Good thing you don't need a condom, it would probably be pretty hard to give yourself an STI.

You watch him line himself up, his hands on your thighs, and then he slowly, slowly pushes in.

You groan. You can't help yourself. It just feels like so much more than his fingers, even though it can't be that much thicker—but it feels almost impossibly warm, and you shudder involuntarily as he pushes the head in. You are suddenly in love with your dick in a way you never have been before. You never knew before that your dick was fucking magic. 

You're kind of proud of your home-made miracle lube, because his dick is slipping in pretty well, you just have to remember to keep breathing so you don't tense up. You're glad he's eased up on the sexy insults for now, because your entire world has narrowed to that one concentrated spot of pressure and heat and you aren't sure you can take much more of it.

He knows, obviously, because he's going incredibly slowly, pushing in a millimeter at a time, this look of concentration on his face like he's navigating his way through some shitty laser maze in a heist film. It looks so stupid that you almost laugh, but your breath and your voice don't seem to be working right, so you dig your heels into his back and hold on tight.

He finally makes it all the way in, and pauses. "Okay?" he says again, and this time, you don't make any kind of smart comment. You try to swallow, but your throat is too dry, so you just lick your lips instead. "Yeah," you say, your voice rasping slightly. You clear your throat and try again. "Yeah, good, go."

He pulls out a little, and then pushes back in again. You hang onto the sheets for dear life. "Whoa," you say. "Wow."

His face is still blank—surely a part of it must be the intensity, but you know he's also still holding back resentment. "Yeah, I know, the sheer fucking poetry of having your own dick in your ass is a little too much to handle. I think that I shall never see a poem so lovely as Dave Strider using his godlike time powers for assplay. Shit, that didn't rhyme."

"Fuck you," you groan, shifting your hips a little to feel him in you. "Come on, fuck me, I can take it."

"Pretty confident, aren’t you," he murmurs, but he complies, starting to thrust, and you lose all ability to think.

“ _Jesus_.” Every time he moves, your breath halts and stutters, your chest catching over and over until it’s almost painful. You squeeze your eyes shut and ignore the choked-off sounds he’s getting from you, because you can’t do anything to stop it. It hurts, a little sharper than you’d anticipated, but you don’t want him to slow down or ease you into it. If anything, you want more. You reach up and grab his hips, trying to pull him even farther into you on the down-thrusts. 

“Ah, shit, this is so humiliating to watch,” he says, his voice strained. “I forgot how much I—wow, fuck, this is so—”

You just groan. You’re not even paying attention to him now—this feels too fucking amazing for you to care about whatever bullshit falls out of this dumb kid’s mouth.

It stays like that for a while, him building you up and you just hanging on and enjoying the ride, and then he has to ruin it by talking.

“Imagine—” He cuts himself off, and you open your eyes. You recognize the look on his face: it’s the useless anger at the cyclic nature of time, the helplessness you feel when you don’t want to do or say a thing but you have to because Future Dave already did. It’s such a chilling tie to your immediate future that it blanks you out for a second. For that one moment when your eyes are connected and he’s giving you that look, you and he are living in the exact same moment in time.

“Imagine if it was Terezi,” he says in a low voice, and punctuates it with another roll of his hips. You grapple with your fingers on his sides, his sweat making them slip.

“What,” you pant.

“Fucking you,” he says. “Like this. Hard—” You moan again, and it runs into a soft sound that he makes in the back of his throat. The two of you moaning together, experiencing the same pleasure at the same moment, makes you dizzy and even more breathless than before. You can see it though, because you’ve already imagined it a thousand times, as he knows perfectly well, the smug son of a bitch. You know from Rose—you wish you didn’t, because you didn’t need to hear about your sister’s adventures in alien anatomy, but you already know what troll girls are packing, and after the initial surprise it started making an appearance in your spank bank on the regular. Terezi propped up over you, fucking you, laughing at you with her sharp teeth glinting—you’ve come to that image more times than you can count, and to have him invoke it now as his cock presses hard inside you makes your skin prickle. You didn’t know you could get more turned on than you already were.

“Harder,” you mumble, sliding your hands down and grabbing his ass.

He reaches down and rakes his nails down your side, and you actually whimper, the most pathetic sound you’ve ever heard come out of your own mouth.

“Terezi inside of you, maybe slapping you around a little, using her claws—”

“Oh god—”

“Yeah, you’d like that, huh,” he says, not bothering to hide his disgust. “You’d like just about anything as long as it meant people were paying attention to you. You’d sleep with anyone on this fucking rock who gave you the time of day.”

“Okay, stop it,” you say, because this is not funny anymore, but you rock your hips against him and bite down on the inside of your cheek so hard you taste blood.

“Terezi,” he says. “Karkat. Kanaya.” You screw your eyes up and try to tell yourself this isn’t affecting you. “Fuck, even the clown, probably, if he called you coolkid and made you feel special. Even Rose—”

“ _No_ ,” you say, your eyes flying wide open. You stop moving, because no, it’s too far. “Shut up, I’m not kidding, stop it, no.”

He laughs bitterly in your face. “Okay,” he says. “Have a fun rest of the afternoon trying not to think about it.”

“Shut the _fuck up_ ,” you say, almost yelling, and press your hands against your face, covering your eyes. No, no, because Rose is your sister and that’s weird, because Skaia screwed you over and pulled the rug out from under your feet at the last second. Because Rose thinks it’s funny to fucking tease you about it and you can’t stand it.

“You think about her fucking Kanaya—about her using her condescending therapy voice with her hand on your dick—”

You press your hands harder against your eyes, almost wanting to press them over your ears, but you can’t quite do it. Your blood is rushing in your ears, but you can still hear every word he says perfectly, like a shot.

“You want her to hold you down and ride you, to tease you for being so into it, like—like this—”

“Shut up,” you say again, weakly, into your hands. You doubt he can even hear you.

“It’s fucking pathetic how much you want it, dude, you just—” He stops moving then too, abruptly, and you almost sob. 

“ _Fuck me or I’ll fucking kill you_ ,” you say, gripping his hips again, tight enough to press little red fingermarks into the skin.

“I’m too close,” he says roughly, but you don’t care, because you are too. He knows, because he knows absolutely fucking everything about you. He starts moving again, slower than before, and wraps a hand around your dick, smearing it with the precome leaking from the head. You suck in a gasp, throwing your head back and arching your spine to press yourself closer to him. His thrusts are closer together now, speeding up like he’s losing control.

He comes first, his dick pulsing inside you and his torso shivering with the force of the orgasm. It only takes you a couple more seconds before you’re spilling into his hand, crying out, hoping no one can hear you but incapable of really caring. You’re coming so hard and you’ve never felt anything so good in your life.

He pulls out, and your legs slip down off his shoulders, feet landing on the bed on either side of him. You reach up and grab a handful of his hair, pulling him down towards you. He lands on your chest and you kiss him hard, open-mouthed, like it’ll help. He kisses back just as desperately, his tongue in your mouth, his nose pressed into your cheek.

Finally, he tears himself away. “I need to get out of here,” he says, his chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath. “I can’t be here another second.”

“Okay, go then,” you say, still dazed from the orgasm, still feeling echoes of the pressure in your ass. He climbs off you and decaptchalogues your shades, throwing them down on the bed. Then he grabs his clothes and walks out without even getting dressed.

You turn over onto your stomach, pressing your face into the cool pillow. You tug the sides of it up around your cheeks so you’re completely hidden, and try to calm down.

You get it. You do. There’s no reason to treat your future self badly, because you’re just going to become that person before long, but past selves are a whole different game. By the time you’re Future Dave, all that shit’s behind you. You can’t feel it anymore, but you can feel the anger at what Future Dave did to you, and it makes you want to hurt someone, preferably that oblivious sucker Past Dave who has no idea what the fuck he’s doing.

Maybe it would be different if it was someone else with time powers. Several iterations of John Egberts would just run around high-fiving each other and hilariously pantsing everyone else with brutal efficiency. Rose would probably talk to herself for hours, delving into the implications of—shit, no, can’t think about Rose. But it’s you, and all you know how to do is prod at the parts of yourself you hate the most, just out of spite. You breathe into the pillow, unwilling to move just yet.

The part of your brain that is always dedicated to the time loops reminds you things you have to do: he said he checked on Rose and Karkat and Terezi, he had that box of tissues, he looked showered. You should probably throw out the empty lube baggie too.

He didn’t come from far enough in the future to know, but you know already, with a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach, that this is not going to be the last time. You’re going to spend hours locked up in here with yourself. Maybe three Daves, next time. Or more. You’ll never tell Rose but she’ll somehow know anyway, and she’ll tease you about it in such convoluted language that by the time you’ve worked out what she’s saying she’s already laughed at you and moved on. You hate time travel, you hate time travel, you hate time travel.

You push yourself up and clamber out of bed.

T minus two hours.


End file.
